


And I long for this mirrored perspective

by smutpeddler



Series: i will possess your heart [1]
Category: IT (2017)
Genre: F/M, Stalking, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 12:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13099758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smutpeddler/pseuds/smutpeddler
Summary: Eventually, someone always sees you.





	And I long for this mirrored perspective

**Author's Note:**

> Another thing I wrote on my phone. I got inspired. There's a collage for these two on my Tumblr. So I'm not sure if this is an opening chapter or just a drabble to get the story ball rolling.  
> Also I wrote this on my phone which I hate doing since I don't particularly like how it changes my writing. Hut computer again soon.
> 
> Tumblr; wherewecangazeintothestars.tumblr.com

For Bethany the rule had always been don't rock the boat. Fly under the radar. Cliche after cliche that meant remain unseen. At home. At school. On the street. Hood up, eyes down, hair over her face. There was something strangely free about it. For the longest time, it had upset her. The walks home meant for tears and silent sobs. By the time she'd started high school they became her only moments of quiet contemplation. They had become almost a comfort. All too soon it wasn't enough and she'd began to watch. Then listen. And all too quickly it became following. Light on her feet and just out of sight. No one was saw her, knew her, and what was there to look for? Not Bethany.

It was mostly mundane. Affairs. Secret addictions. Homes too much like her own for her to remain intrigued. The Bower's gang we're good for a laugh but even their actions became predictable, even the violence. 

She might not have even noticed anything, would have continued her walk home, if the infamous and quite psychotic Patrick Hockstetter wasn't trying so hard to achieve what she did so naturally. Remain unseen. It was odd, interesting, and a bad idea. The screams fill her head, shattered glass. Without a thought her feet turn and she follows the boy no one else cares to notice. Somehow invisible in the spotlight because they'd have to look at him, think of what he was. It was easier to pretend. It was always easier to pretend. 

It's not a long journey but his destination is surprising. The junkyard. Not a stop him and his friends had ever made. It was a dilapitated thing, easy to break into as Gene had a pentiant for both adult phone lines and vodka. He crouches low, climbing through a hole in the fence and out the other side. Only once he was out of sight did it become her turn. Graceful and quiet, it's a quick entrance and her ears strain for the sound of him. There's the scuffling of feet on gravel, an almost muttering. With careful steps she keeps herself hidden behind broken down cars and abandoned furniture, it's the closest she's ever been. To him, to dangerous curiousity, the closest she'd ever come to being caught. It's amazing. Her heart pounds, her body tingles, and a new heat shoots through her body. She doesn't understand it but she wants more.

It's like he can smell it in the air, he stops. It's so hard to keep her breathing still, to duck down behind the rusted dryer. Something in her aches, makes it almost seems worth the danger to peak her eyes over the edge. It can't be helped and those dangerous eyes are locked on hers. A twisting smirk on his face. Goosebumps rise on her flesh, there's an unreadable chill in the air. It's not bad but it sure as hell isn't good.

"And who might you be?" it's somewhere between a threat and a song.

Bethany runs, as quickly and quietly as she can. Sliding through the hole, it's frayed edges catching her clothes and scraping her skin. There'll be a shouting match later over the ripped jacket and blood stained denim but all she can do is run. Still warm and cold, terrified and yet excited. Pumped full of something that andrenaline couldn't even begin to describe. Her feet don't stop until she's outside her house. Staring at the curtained window as the shadows behind scream words like whore and slut. It's not important now. Not anymore. Right now, for the first time in a long time she sees herself. Red faced, curls tangled, and different. Something animalistic. Someone new. Who might she be? It rings in her head, louder than years of bullshit arguments.

Who might you be? And all she can hear is the cruel voice of Patrick Hockstetter.


End file.
